Move Like You Want
by thimbles
Summary: Every single gig has been hours and hours of torturous foreplay, played out on a stage for everyone around us to see. I watch you. I want you. And tonight, if you're willing, I'm going to have you. M for musicians, some swearing and sex.


**Move Like You Want**

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**A/N: Ben Howard owns "Move Like You Want;" Stephanie Meyer owns Bella and Edward. **

**My most enormous thanks to the ladies of the DTCPS. You guys rock my world.**

**MissWinkles - I love you like whipped peanut butter on fresh bread.**

**Tam - I love you like I love words and music. Yep.**

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**Okay my lovelies, I wrote this one-shot for a bit of fun, and to push myself outside my comfort zone.**

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_**Move Like You Want**_**, Ben Howard**

_**I saw you earlier on,  
**__**They were playing blues downtown  
**__**Some kind of Mississippi, Mississippi song  
**__**And I know, I know, I know I caught your eye  
**__**Because you darling, you caught mine.**_

_**So lady get down,  
**__**Like there's no one else around here.  
**__**Baby, move like you wanna,  
**__**Baby, move like you need,  
**__**Honey, move like you ought to,  
**__**Baby, move just to please me.  
**__**Baby, move like you wanna,  
**__**Baby, move like you need,**_

_**Oh I saw you, watching the band play slow  
**__**Eyes like a morning star,  
**__**In the soft of the early evening glow  
**__**And I know, I know, I know you were burning up inside  
**__**Because these feelings, these feelings are so hard to hide.**_

_**So woman get down,  
**__**Like there's no one else around here.**_

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The crowd is buzzing, bouncing, screaming as I lean into the microphone. "We're just gonna do one last song for you."

The lights are blinding, the pulsing crowd is radiating heat in this stuffy little theatre, and sweat drips down my back.

I let the opening line rip from my throat, grinning as the crowd takes up the lyrics. When we hit the chorus, I motion for them to take over – I fucking love this. Hearing my words, my song, screamed back at me by hundreds and thousands of voices. There's something magic about a big group of people singing together. No matter how fucking awful the individual voices are, how off key and out of tune they may be – when you blend them in a crowd, it always, always takes my breath away.

Taking the opportunity, I look to my left, over at you. Your hair shines red under the roving lights, and I can see a few curls forming at your temple. You're rocking your hips as your fingers bounce across the strings of your bass. You catch my eye and shoot a wink at me, one side of that ridiculously tempting mouth of yours curling up in a smirk.

You joined us halfway through the tour. Jake suggested you as his own replacement when he got word of his dad's critical condition.

"She's fucking awesome, man," he told me. "You'll probably want to dump my sorry ass and keep her on."

I laughed, but it turns out he was right.

I want to keep you, and not just to play bass, or cello, or any of the other dozen instruments you play flawlessly. Not even for that pretty voice of yours that I fucking love to hear weaving around mine. No, I just want _you_.

Every single gig has been hours and hours of torturous foreplay, played out on a stage for everyone around us to see. Night after night, as you shake those sexy-ass hips and pluck away at the strings of your bass – infuriatingly located at just the right level to have my mind heading into all sorts of debauched places – I watch you.

I want you.

And tonight, if you're willing, I'm going to have you.

Don't get me wrong, it won't just be for tonight.

I want you always.

Because the things is – not only are you the sexiest woman I've ever seen, and one of the most accomplished musicians I know – you're also the coolest chick I've ever met.

You can read me on stage like an open score, anticipating it when I just feel like improvising. Hell, you've even suggested variations on my own songs that have made them so much better. I think I'd resent that, if it weren't you. You can take my moody "I'm an artist" bullshit, but you call me out the second I cross the line. You make me laugh, but you also listen when that's what I need. Somehow, you seem to know instinctively when that is.

I manage to tear my eyes away from you to sing the second verse. My voice is getting hoarse, rasping and scratching. It's the strain of nearly two hours on stage, and the two hours last night, and the two hours almost every night for the last four months.

My fingers speed on the strings of my guitar as we move into the bridge. Garrett hoots from behind the drum kit, looking like a deranged spider with his long arms flailing. How he manages to keep a steady rhythm with his limbs sprawling around the way they do is beyond me, but he's unfalteringly tight.

I hear James catcalling as you start moving toward me, mischief written across your face, and lighting up your dark eyes. I swing my guitar around, making sure I don't stumble over my leads, moving slowly across the stage to meet you. The crowd is hollering and cheering as we come face-to-face, barely a foot between us. Because you're left-handed, we line up perfectly, and there's this secret, hopeful part of me – the part that's currently thumping wildly in my chest – that wants to take it as a sign.

We fit.

You raise your eyebrows in challenge, and I give you a look that says, "Bring it, babe." Your tongue peeks out between your lips as you concentrate on the notes you're pulling out, as you watch the way my fingers shift from chord to chord on the neck of my guitar.

Distracted by the way your slender wrists curl around your instrument; I flub a few chords, my strumming falling out of its rhythm. I laugh and shake my head as I pull my hand away from the strings. You're laughing, too, pleased with yourself.

Your head bounces a few times, helping me find my pacing again.

"Keep up," you mouth at me, rolling your pretty brown eyes.

I shake my head, chuckling. I fucking love it when you tease me.

We play a few more bars face to face, smiling, or leering perhaps, communicating silently.

I bite my lip and let my gaze rake up and down your figure – from the dark hair that's escaping your messy topknot, to the baggy band shirt that you somehow make sexy, and then those tight-ass jeans that drive me wild. I'm being provocative, letting my eyes say, _I want you._

You smirk at me and raise an eyebrow: _What are you going to do about it?_

I lick my lips: _Plenty_.

You blush a little, ducking your head. And yet, when you look back up at me, your eyes are on fire: _I want you, too._

You've got to be able to hear the groan that escapes my throat: _We need to get off this fucking stage, now._

I watch you swallow, and then I have to spin away from you. If I look at you much longer, the front eleven rows of the audience are going to know exactly how much I want you, too.

I saunter back toward my microphone stand. The intensity in our playing has ratcheted up – I'm feeding off you, you're feeding off me, and we're dragging the rest of the band along with us.

My lips caress the microphone as I sing the final verse, high on both performing and the anticipation of what's going to happen when I get you off stage. Adrenaline surges through me. I wonder if you're feeling it too? Is your heart accelerating? Your breath quickening? I chance a quick glance at you.

Your eyes are shut, your head thrown back, as you finger your strings.

It takes everything in me not to groan into the mic.

_Fuck_. I want to see that, only with you naked and your hands …

I have to shake my head. The eight hundred people packed into this venue don't need to witness the effect you have on me. I shift my guitar in front of me, rocking it to cover my groin.

And then, somehow, I'm finally stroking the song to a close.

I think I thank the crowd. I hope I do. My mind has already left the building.

I swing the strap of my guitar over my head and set the instrument on its stand. I wave again, before stumbling off-stage.

Emmett passes me, his eyes already focused on the mess of leads he has to deal with. He claps a hand to my shoulder, "Nice work, Edward. Great set."

"Thanks, man."

Garrett takes one look at me and grins. "You're gonna have to tell your dick to stand down. We've got a few more hours on the clock, man."

"Huh?" I pause mid-step, a little shocked, and a small body crashes into me – hard. I know it's yours. I can smell you. Peppermint and smoke, girl sweat, and that tea tree shampoo you use.

Garrett cackles madly as I spin around, finding you on your ass behind me.

"Aw, shit. I'm sorry, Bella!"

You shrug off my apology, winking at me as you accept my offered hand and let me pull you to your feet. Your hand is small and warm in mine, the calluses on your fingertips rubbing against my wrist as you heave yourself up.

I hold onto you for a moment too long, staring down into your pretty eyes. Dark and dangerous – sparking with the same lust and want that I can feel throbbing through my veins, pooling low in my belly.

Your raspberry-pink tongue peeks out, wetting your lips, and I can't look away. I'm fucking jealous of your tongue. I want it to be my tongue sliding across your soft-looking bottom lip … then delving deep, kissing you hard, until you're gasping for breath and moaning with need.

Someone's talking, but all I can hear are echoes and burbles – like I'm submerged, my head underwater. _I'm drowning_, I think.

"Wake up, Edward!" You pinch my side, hard, and I jump, squeaking like a pussy.

Reality rushes back, my ears assaulted by the chatter of the guys around me, and the thumping of the road crew as they start loading all our shit into the truck. _Fuck_, how long did you keep my pinned with your gaze?

"Hey, dipshit. We've gotta go meet and greet," Garrett reminds me.

James wiggles the caterpillars perched over his eyes. "Oh, yeah. I'm gonna do some meeting and greeting between the sheeting tonight."

"Shut up, Jamie." You beat me to it. "Get a new fucking line, dumbass."

James shrugs – he knows better than to be put off by your sharp tongue. He throws an arm across your shoulders and tugs you away. He looks back toward me, his eyebrows in motion again. I flip him off and trail after you, ignoring Garrett's snickers.

"I don't get it." Jasper's voice surprises me, and I jump – I was too busy watching the sway of your hips to hear him catch up with me.

I look at Garrett, who simply shrugs. "Sorry about this, man. But it's the last stop and –"

"Yeah, I get it, Gaz. It's all good."

"So … Bella … and you."

"Mmm." I'm not giving him anything.

Garrett smirks. "Shit man, _I_ almost got hard watching you two tonight. Fucking hot."

I shudder. "That's just gross, dude."

"Wait. Edward likes Bella?"

Garrett and I stop in our tracks, looking at Jasper in disbelief.

"Oh no, not at all." Garrett grins, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah." Jasper nods sagely. "I didn't think so. No chemistry. I see these things, you know?"

"Fucking hell," I mutter. "Dickhead wouldn't get sarcasm if it rubbed its tits in his face."

"Gaz doesn't like tits. He's gay, remember?"

Garrett snorts loudly at the concern on Jasper's face. "Yeah, Cullen. How could you forget that, asshole? You're so fucking insensitive."

"Fuck me." I shake my head.

"Edward!"

I look at Jasper wearily. His eyes are wide and his jaw slack.

"Gaz has a boyfriend." He shakes his head at me in disappointment. "Don't ask him to cheat on Liam."

Garrett may have a boyfriend, but he's also close to pissing his damn pants laughing. It's lucky Jasper is a fucking genius on keys, because he tries my patience like no one else.

I take a deep breath, and push open the door you and James disappeared through only moments ago.

I catch sight of you for one fleeting moment – smiling as you happily reach for the pen a little girl is offering you, her eyes wide with admiration – before I'm surrounded.

Pens and markers are shoved into my hands, and I scrawl my name across an endless blur of CDs and tee-shirts. The flash-pop of cameras becomes kind of blinding, but I keep a smile fixed in place, allowing myself to be manhandled into people's pictures. A few bold, pretty girls make me offers, but they're easy to refuse. Maybe, a few months ago, I'd have entertained a few of them, flirted a little, maybe even had a drink with some of them. Tonight, I barely see them – I'm so focused on you.

I can't see you, but I can feel you. I know exactly where you are in the room. I feel the magnetic pull, the ache in my body drawing me in your direction.

I think you can feel it, too.

Your eyes meet mine across the room every now and then, this invisible current surging and swelling between us. I groan, shifting in discomfort, my hands in my pockets. You catch the movement, your smile becoming cocky, challenging.

Yeah, you can feel it. You're fucking reveling in it.

I catch Garrett's eye, my forefinger making a corkscrew motion. Fucker pretends to misunderstand and mimes taking a draught of an imaginary beer. I flip him off and he laughs, pushing his sandy hair from his eyes. He takes pity on me – or maybe he's trying to torture me – because the next thing I know, you're standing beside me, a beer in each hand.

"Gaz said you needed to cool down," you tell me, handing me the dark bottle.

It's frosted over, the icy condensation making it slippery in my palm. I take a deep drink, the chilled liquid sliding down my throat is a startling counterpoint to the heat pulsing through me with your proximity.

You wink, and I know you're completely aware of the torment you're inflicting on me as you press the cold glass to your forehead, your cheeks flushed a luminous pink.

My lips find the shell of your ear moments before another group of admirers arrive to steal away your attention.

"I want you," I murmur. "Naked, screaming my name."

You chest heaves with your gasp, and your eyes widen, and then you're gone – caught up in another whirlwind of wide-eyed adulation and praise.

I chuckle to myself, pleased to know that maybe, just maybe, I'm getting under your skin, too.

Eventually, our duties are discharged, the crowd dwindles, and we're fucking free. I grab your hand, barely containing the lust within me. I feel amped up, adrenaline pumping – I'm completely on edge.

Garrett looks like he wants to fuck with us a little more, his smile evil as he rubs his hands together like some kind of caricature villain. You shake your head at him once and his expression becomes serious – maybe he realizes my hands have already balled into fists, my muscles tensed and coiled. He nods once, stepping aside as we dart back behind the stage.

As soon as we're out of sight of the few audience stragglers – I'm too far gone to care about our band-mates – I have your back against the wall, my hands on your hips and my mouth against yours.

James whistles loudly as he walks in behind us, and you raise one hand, presumably to flip him off – I can't be sure. I'm intoxicated, drunk with desire, high on the taste of your lips.

Your mouth is hot, scorching, setting me aflame. Cigarettes, toothpaste and gin mingle with a sweetness that is all you. It's fucking addictive, and now that I've sampled you once – I'm going to need you, crave you, always.

Hard, guttural groans accompany the wet noises of lips and tongues. I don't know whether they come from your throat or mine, but they're spurring me on, and I'm pressed against you. Fuck, I want to climb inside your skin and be consumed by you.

You tear your mouth from mine, gasping, panting. I suck in a couple of breaths and fix my mouth to your neck, sucking, licking, biting. You shudder when my tongue slides down the curve of your neck, tasting salty sweat and sweet skin. I like that – making your body react, having that power over you – so I do it again, grinning into that corner where your shoulder meets your neck as you moan.

Your hands fist my hair, pulling my face back to yours. You kiss me hard, then suck my bottom lip. It's my turn to squirm, my hips rocking against you, grinding. I'm so fucking hard it's painful – my dick trying to drill a hole through the thick denim.

"We need to get out of here." The words slide from between my teeth, my jaw clenching.

Your hand darts into my pocket, forcing a hiss from my lips as your fingers graze my swollen cock. Your eyes are ablaze as you pull my keys out and swing them around your finger. Turning abruptly, you grab my hand and stalk toward the roller door.

"We're taking off. See you fuckers tomorrow. Maybe the day after." You toss the words over your shoulder. "Gaz, if you value your balls, make sure no one scratches my cello."

Jeers and taunts follow us as we slip past the truck that's being loaded with our gear and out into the night.

It smells like wet asphalt, heat, a brewing storm. The air is damp, heavy, oppressive but charged, the night thick with anticipation – gasoline fumes waiting for the spark of a match. At any moment, the whole sky will explode. And so will we.

You unlock the car but throw me the keys, sliding into the passenger seat.

"Where to?"

You look at me, an eyebrow raised, a sardonic smile twisting your mouth. "Do you think I give a fuck?"

"Oh, you'll be giving several fucks," I promise. I get a kick out of watching you squirm in your seat.

"Just drive, Edward."

My foot hits the floor, the deep purr of the engine satisfying as I navigate through the wide streets.

The light in the hotel room flickers, casting a sallow light over the grimy room. The red vacancy light is faintly visible through the threadbare and yellowed curtains, and the air in here is stale – menthol and mildew. For some reason the seedy conditions only make me want you more – it's dirty and illicit and I'm throbbing, need pacing like a caged beast in my chest.

It's hotter in here than it was outside, and you flick the cooling unit on. It whirs to life reluctantly, shuddering and coughing before it finds its deep rumbly rhythm. I tear my gaze from you as I pull the black tee-shirt over my head.

Without looking at me, you follow suit, tossing your sweat-damp shirt toward the faded couch. My eyes are glued to you, devouring you as you bend over, searching the tiny fridge for a beer.

I see the thin sheen of perspiration beading on your naked skin, and the match is struck, scorching me – I am nothing but want and lust.

The first crack of thunder jolts me into action. Before I can even think about moving, I'm pulling your back against my chest, grinding my aching cock against your ass. The can of beer in your hand falls to the floor with a dull thud. My hands are on your hips, my fingers digging into the soft swell of your flesh. My lips fasten to your neck, pulling the blood to the surface, claiming you.

You try to turn to face me, but I hold you fast, biting your shoulder lightly as you whine in protest. I smirk into your neck as you push back against me – I'm pleased to know you are burning, too.

Your hands reach backwards, and you anchor them in my hair, tugging fiercely as my mouth continues to explore your neck, your shoulders, your throat. You try to pull my face to yours, a growl of frustration rising in your throat as I resist.

I snake one arm around your waist as the other reaches for your breasts. I yank the black satin and lace down, freeing your tits from their clutches. Greedily, my hand maps out their contours – squeezing and groping first one and then the other. I brush my fingertips across your nipples, enjoying the way they harden at my touch, the way you push your chest harder against my hand, the way the breath whooshes from your lungs.

"More," you demand, your voice rough.

My chuckle travels through my chest to vibrate inside yours. I oblige you, though, my other hand moving from your waist to your breast. They feel so fucking good in my hands – soft and heavy – but it's not enough.

I release you, and we scramble for the sagging bed, tugging at each other until I'm settled over you, our breathing heavy. You look up at me, your eyes flashing with desire and a challenge, our hips grinding and thrusting mindlessly.

I'm out of control with my need to consume, kissing you hard, groaning into your mouth, grinding my cock between your legs. I wrench my lips from yours, breathing heavy, thrusting. Your eyes squeeze closed. Your breath catches.

I drop my mouth to your tits, my tongue tracing your nipple, flicking it, sucking hard – tormenting you. My fingers find the other peak and twist. Your back arches; your gasps fill the air.

Braced on an elbow, I lift off you, my mouth on your breast drawing whimpers from your lips. My other hand cups the hot, damp denim between your legs. I grin around your nipple at the "Oh, fuck!" you exhale.

I work your button open, slide the zipper down, and dip my hand inside. My fingers press at the spot my dick aches for and you choke back a cry. I lift my head to watch you – your babbling cries, your breathing, the contortions of your face guide me. Your body is the most sweetly tuned instrument I've ever played.

Fists twisting the sheets, your hips push up against my hand. I keep you poised on the edge – a drum roll building, a crescendo rising. Your head thrashes from side to side, your chest heaving.

With a curl of my fingers, you shatter. You're fucking stunning as you come: your back bowed, lips parted, your skin slick with sweat.

Panting heavily, you meet my gaze, your body still trembling.

"Jeans. Off," you tell me, your voice hoarse.

Denim goes flying as we scramble out of our pants, and then I'm on my back and you're above me, your thighs across my waist.

Your kiss is hard, demanding.

I grab your hips and drag you down, grinding your slick flesh over my straining cock. A grunt escapes my lips – I'm on fire, burning for you.

Your smile is wicked and I groan, agonized, as you lift your weight from me.

I'm whining and complaining at the loss of contact until you lower yourself, your mouth closing over me, hot and wet. I lose all coherency.

My hands tangle into your hair, and the only words I can manage are your name and "fuck." Both spill from my lips over and over as you drag me closer and closer to the edge.

Your tongue … Fuck … Lips … So fucking good.

I'm shuddering when you pull away.

I fucking whimper and then you're hovering above me, a smile on your lips and a gleam in your eye.

"Condom?" Thank fuck _your_ brain is still functioning.

"P-pocket."

You fist my cock, pumping it twice. I grunt in protest when you release me.

I hear you moving around, but my eyes are fixed on the filthy ceiling. I try to calm my breathing, try to slow the heaving of my chest.

My heart is still thundering in my ears, but the fog of lust has cleared a little as you climb back onto the bed. Your dark hair has mostly escaped its band and tumbles around your shoulders, the tendrils caressing your breasts.

You crawl over the ugly floral comforter, the foil packet gripped in one hand.

You squeak in surprise as I grab you by the waist, rolling us until you're under me, your eyes wide. My hands pin your hips as I move down your body. I toss your legs over my shoulders and bury my face between your thighs.

My tongue and lips work as you arch against me, chanting my name over and over.

I want to know what it will take to make you scream it, what I need to do to make you whimper it.

That will have to wait, because right now, I just need to be inside you.

Your hands are in my hair, pulling hard. I let you pull me back to your mouth, kissing you hard. You kind of groan and whimper as you fumble with the condom, tearing the packet open and trying to put it on me without looking.

I laugh into your mouth and take it from you.

You're squirming when I pull away. I sit back on my knees so I can cover my dick with the fucking latex.

I raise an eyebrow and you nod, your dark eyes serious.

_Fuck_.

This is really going to happen.

"Now." You command and I obey.

I push into you slowly.

So good. So fucking good.

I might say that aloud, but I can't tell and I don't care.

I pause, my hips against yours.

"Move. Please. _Oh, fuck_." The strain in your voice only winds me tighter.

I pull my hips back and then slam them forward. We both cry out.

My senses are fucking overloaded. It's too much. The feeling of being inside you; the sound of skin slamming against skin, of your gasps and moans and my own grunts; the taste of you still on my tongue.

I have to slam my eyes closed, cut off that sense.

I can't watch you. I can't watch the way each thrust of my hips sets your breasts shaking. I can't watch your eyes squeeze closed and your mouth drop open.

"Harder." Your cry is strangled.

I oblige, pounding into you. My arms shake with the effort of supporting my weight and this furious pace I've set.

I'm close. Too close. I shake my head, trying to hold back. My jaw clenches, my elbows lock. Every muscle is coiled tight.

Profanity flies from your mouth and I'm fucking relieved when I feel you shaking and shuddering beneath me. As you come, I let go. Excruciating pleasure swallows me.

I'm drowning.

I collapse onto you, breathing hard, my ears ringing.

I resurface, disoriented. The room still vibrates with the rumble of the useless air-conditioning unit, but something has shifted.

My jellied limbs slowly re-solidify. I'm sticky and hot – it's gross, but I couldn't give a shit.

Pushing up on an elbow, I sweep your sweat-soaked hair from your face.

I search your eyes for any hint of regret, but all I find is sleepy satiation and … _wonder_?

Your voice is blues-raspy. "Fucking hell. That was …"

"Yeah. I know."

I kiss you again – softly now – before I roll off you. You gasp a little as our bodies disconnect. It's an uncomfortable feeling – leaving your body. I roll onto my back, pulling you with me, my arms sliding around your waist. Your skin is clammy, sticking to mine, but I like it – our bodies pasted together by sweat.

We kind of doze for a while, drifting. My fingertips trace your curves and I can feel your heart thumping through your chest into mine, like I've got two hearts beating inside me. They drum a different rhythm, but every few bars, there's this one beat that falls in sync.

I don't know how long we stay like this, but eventually you climb off the bed, telling me to get my filthy ass in the shower. I'm kind of hoping for another round, but you insist on us taking a cold fucking shower, so that's not happening – yet.

You're still wrapped only in a towel when I bring my spare guitar in from the car – you insisted I get it. I raise an eyebrow at you, but you just shrug, lighting a cigarette.

"It's too fucking hot for clothes," you tell me.

Like I'm going to object to you being almost naked. In fact, maybe you should lose the towel. I suggest this, and your shoulders lift again. Your mouth curves wickedly, and you stand up, unwinding the towel and throwing it over my head.

By the time the towel hits the floor, you're cross-legged on the rumpled bed, your lips wrapped around the cigarette.

"Play for me." Blue-grey smoke carries your words across the room.

"I'd rather play you," I reply, winking at you. "See what pretty noises I can coax from you."

"Later," you promise, a smirk twisting your lips. "Now, play."

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**Thanks for reading!**

**I'd love to hear your thoughts.**

**Shell x**


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